


The Past is Another Realm

by ariel2me



Series: Drabble/Ficlet Collection [10]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2018-02-23 14:18:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 15,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2550614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariel2me/pseuds/ariel2me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles inspired by The World of Ice and Fire and The Sons of the Dragon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**The Unnamed Baratheon**

When the singers sang songs and the storytellers told tales about the beloved Prince of Dragonflies and his Jenny of Oldstones, they neglected to mention the name of the woman he had spurned, humiliated and dishonored, all for the sake of ‘ _true love_.’

When the maesters and archmaesters wrote of that debacle of broken betrothal and broken promises in their ponderous tomes – turning up their noses at the singers and storytellers with their foolish notions of  _love_ and  _romance_  – they  _still_  neglected to mention her name, according her the courtesy of being nothing more than ‘ _a daughter of House Baratheon_ ,’ or ‘ _Lord Lyonel’s daughter_.’

The Prince of Dragonflies’ spurned woman, the Laughing Storm’s pitiful daughter; that was all she was to them, in the end. First it was the story of Duncan Targaryen, his great love for Jenny of Oldstones, and the crown he renounced for the sake of that love. Then it became the story of Lyonel Baratheon, his wounded pride, and the rebellion sparked by that pride.

Later it morphed into the story of Ormund Baratheon, and his marriage to the Targaryen princess he was given to wed to soothe his father’s wounded pride and regain his House’s fallen honor. Later still, it was the story of the son and grandsons that came of that Baratheon-Targaryen union, one of whom would one day depose the last Targaryen king from the Iron Throne.

And all the while _her_ story remained untold, unknown, lost to history and legends alike, this unnamed Baratheon who had a name after all, who shared a name with the Storm Queen, and whose angry defiance and wrathful indignation – not tears, not pitiful weeping – spurred the Laughing Storm to declare himself the Storm King, like their ancestors of old.   


	2. Chapter 2

**Queen You Shall Be, Until**

Queen you shall be, when they tell you that your father perished with a sword in his hand and a curse on his lips, defiant to his very last breath.

Queen you shall be, when you smother your tears, entomb your grief, repel your doubt, with nothing more potent than the proud resolve to be defiant to  _your_  very last breath.

Queen you shall be, when you take up your rightful inheritance and declare yourself to be what you already are.

Queen you shall be, when you order the gates to the castle to be barred; when you command your men to keep the enemy out at all cost.

Queen you shall be, when the dragon not-queen flies into your castle atop her fiery beast, demanding submission on bended knee.   

Queen you shall be, when you refuse her terms; when you proclaim the resolve of the defenders of your castle to die to the last man and last woman standing; when you declare that her husband, her brother, the dragon not-king, is welcome to be king of bones, blood and ashes. 

Queen you shall be, until the hearts of your own men waver at the thought of being reduced to bones and ashes; when their courage falter at the notion of their life-blood soiling the grounds of the castle, of their flesh cooked and burned to submission.

Queen you shall be, until your own men deceive and betray you that very same night, only hours after the dragon not-queen flew away from the aborted parley.

Queen you shall be, until your own men deliver you bruised and battered, naked, chained and gagged, to the feet of the beast that slayed your father.    

Queen you shall be, until the beast that slayed your father reveals himself to be a man, merely a man, less of a monster than those who betrayed you.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Broken King and His Queen (Aegon III and Jaehaera Targaryen)**

_**Did she jump, or was she pushed?**_

This child who never wept, never smiled, never laughed, who grew “ _strange and unlike other children_ ,” as they say. Did she feel, did she despair, did she grieve? None could tell, her boy-king husband least of all.

 _Your father fed my mother to the dragon_ ,  _while I stood watching_ , he never said to her, locked in his own misery, in his own bitterness.  

 _Your father ordered men to murder my twin brother, while my mother stood watching_ , she never said to him, locked in her own silent world.

Did she despair enough to want to end her life, like her mother did?

This he knew – that what was not shown, not paraded, not revealed to the greedy watchful eyes of the world could still be deeply felt, deeply sensed, deeply  _lived_. They saw only his sullenness, his disinterest, his apathy; for he took great care to hide the rest, to conceal the fact that his first thought when told of the death of his queen had been,  _you should have come to me. We could have held hands and jumped, together._

Just because she never wept, it did not mean that she never despaired.

**_Did she jump, or was she pushed?_ **

This queen given to the safekeeping of the bastard brother of his Hand. The Hand who wanted to make a new queen of his own daughter.

There could be no new queen, of course, while the old one still lived. Particularly if the old one was a child likely to live many, many more years.  

Well, there was his answer to the question, plain and clear as day.   

**_Did she jump, or was she pushed?_ **

She jumped. He lived with that lie, made a great show of believing it, of accepting it, for he  _was_  king, and distressingly, he knew that he must live after all, despite his own deepest wish. And a boy-king who wanted to avoid being pushed to his own death must pretend that his little queen jumped to her own death of her own accord, without anyone giving her a helping hand.

But he took some satisfaction in never, ever,  _ever,_  making the daughter of that murderous Hand his new queen.


	4. Chapter 4

**Ormund Baratheon visiting his son Steffon in King’s Landing, to see how the boy is adjusting to his new life serving as a royal page.**

“And do you pour wine for His Grace during mealtime?”

“No, Cousin Aerys does that, because he is older and he has been a royal page longer. I hold the bowl of water for Grandfa – I mean, for His Grace to wash his hands in, then Tywin hands him the towel so he can dry his hands, and then –“ 

“Tywin?”

“Tywin Lannister, Father. I wrote to you and Mother about him, remember?”

“Oh yes, Lord Lannister’s son, I remember now.”

“He is Cousin Aerys’ great friend,” Steffon said.

“And is he  _your_  friend too, this Tywin?”

Steffon considered his father’s question solemnly, brows furrowed with intense concentration. His sweet, solemn boy, away from home for the first time _._  What must be, must be, Ormund knew, but still, his heart ached for his son. His own father would have laughed at that, would have called him a fool indulging in foolish sentiments. The Laughing Storm never had any patience for what he considered any kind of indulgence, despite his well-known sobriquet.  

“I think so. Yes, Tywin is my friend,” Steffon finally replied. “And not just because he is Cousin Aerys’ friend. Tywin is my friend in his own right, because … because ,” here he paused, eyes closed, “well, because I like him, and he likes _me_ ,” the boy declared, happy to have found the right reason.

Ormund smiled. “Many enduring friendships have been built on much less,” he told his son.

“Are you friends with Tywin’s father?” Steffon asked.

“I only know Lord Lannister from meeting him in court,” Ormund replied. A somewhat generous but often very misguided man, if kinder tales about Tytos Lannister were to be believed. Crueler tales spoke of him as being a weak and feeble lord, in resolve and judgment if not in bodily strength. Ormund wondered what Lord Lannister’s son Tywin was like. He must meet this boy himself, Ormund decided, if Tywin was to be a close friend and companion to Steffon.

Leaning his head closer to his father’s, Steffon whispered, “I don’t think Tywin misses his home very much. He is  _very_  brave. I wish I am brave too, Father.”

“You can be brave, and still miss your home,” Ormund said.

“I miss Mother very much. I did not write that in the letters because I know it will make her very sad,” Steffon confided.

Rhaelle had been very displeased with the idea of sending their son to King’s Landing to serve as her father’s royal page. “I was sent to a strange place to serve as a cupbearer to a strange lord when I was only a girl scarcely older than Steffon. I know all about the hardship and the misery our son has to look forward to.”

“But His Grace is Steffon’s own grandfather,” Ormund protested. “Your father would not mistreat his own grandson, Rhaelle.” Not the way Ormund’s father had mistreated Rhaelle, the replacement Targaryen sent to Storm’s End to wed his heir, the sacrificial lamb offered to appease Lyonel Baratheon’s fury and wounded pride after his daughter was brutally spurned and humiliated by Rhaelle’s eldest brother.  

“Your mother knows how much you miss her,” Ormund told his son.

“I miss you too, Father,” Steffon said shyly, looking down at his feet.

Ormund did what he had desperately wanted to do since he first arrived in King’s Landing - he took his son into his embrace, wishing that he would not have to let go so quickly.   


	5. Chapter 5

> _It was a broken reign that followed, for Aegon [III] himself was broken. He was melancholy to the end of his days, found pleasure in almost nothing, and locked himself in his chambers to brood for days on end. He likewise came to dislike being touched—even by the hand of his beautiful queen. Even after she had flowered, he was long in calling her to his bed … (The World of Ice and Fire)_

**The King Who Could Not Bear to be Touched (Aegon III/Daenaera Velaryon)**

“Will the king be coming to my bedchamber tonight?”

“No, my queen.”

“Would His Grace rather … well, would he rather than I go to him? To his bedchamber, I mean.”

“His Grace has not asked for your presence in his bedchamber.”

“Has the king been told?”

“Told of what, Your Grace?”

“Has my husband been told that my moonblood has come? That … that I am now old enough to lie with him?”

“The Grand Maester informed the king of your changed condition the morning after your moonblood came for the first time.”

“My  _changed condition_?”

“That you are now a woman flowered, mature enough to bear His Grace’s children.”

“And what did the king say, when he was told this?”

“He nodded.”

“He nodded? And that was all? He did not say any words, hearing this news?”

“No, he did not.”

“That was almost half a year ago. My moonblood has come with regularity since then.”

“His Grace is aware of that, Your Grace.”

“He is? How could he, when he has never once asked me …  _oh_.  _Of course_. My sheets are inspected every morning.”

“His Grace is anxious to be kept informed about the state of your health and your well-being, my queen.”

“But not anxious enough to ask me in person, I take it?”

“His Grace is not a man of many words.”

“My cousin tells me that I must do my duty. That I must lie with the king to give him an heir.”

“Lord Alyn is a wise man.”

“How can I lie with the king if he does not come to me? And he does not call for me to go to his bed.”

“You must wait, my queen. You must wait until His Grace calls for you.”

“And when will that be?”

“I do not know, my queen.”

“He flinches so, when my hand brushes against his at the dinner table.”

 “His Grace dislikes to be touched by  _anyone_. It is not meant as an insult to you, Your Grace.”

“But I am his queen. His wife! If I am to lie with him, if I am to make a child with him, surely … surely that will involve a lot more than mere touching of hands. And if he could not bear even that, how will he … how will he  _ever_  …”

“Put a child in you? The king will do his duty, my queen. When the time comes.”

“Even if it hurts him?”

“It … it is more common for the first time to hurt for the lady in question, not the man.”

“I am not ignorant of the details. My cousin has taken great care to ensure that I have been properly instructed on how to do my duty in the king’s bed. But a man who could not bear even the touch of his wife’s hand, how will such a man -”

“As I said, the king knows his duty.”

“You said before that he will do his duty. And now you are saying that he  _knows_  his duty. So which is it? There is a difference between knowing, and actually doing.”

“His Grace knows his duty, and he will do his duty.”

“And how will  _I_  bear it, to see my husband in such a state? To watch him flinch, perhaps even recoil, while he’s trying to ‘ _do his duty?_ ’ How could I take any pleasure in it, if it is obvious that he takes none? Am I so unpleasing to his eyes? Do I make for such a disgusting sight?”

“Not at all, Your Grace. Your beauty is renown throughout the realm.”

“What use is that, if I could not even make my husband come to my bed?”


	6. Chapter 6

**The Queen Who Proposed (Sharra Arryn)**

Would that she were ten years younger, or more. Would that she were still the great beauty that she once was – the Flower of the Mountain, the fairest maiden in all the Seven Kingdoms. Aegon Targaryen would not have found it so easy to ignore her offer of marriage then.

“The Lord of Dragonstone has not seen fit to reply to my proposed marriage alliance,” Queen Sharra announced, to the assembled lords of the Vale. “A faded flower of the mountain ten years his elder is not comely enough to tempt the Lord of Dragonstone, it seems.”

 _I rule as a regent for my young son - Ronnel Arryn, King of the Mountain and Vale - since the death of my husband_ , Sharra had written in her letter to Aegon Targaryen.  _I have been content to remain a widow for these many years, but for the sake of bringing about a peaceful alliance between our kingdom and yours, I hereby offer my hand to you in marriage, and friendship._

Her letter had received no reply from Dragonstone. And to think that she had wasted  _hours_  sitting for that portrait! Hours that could have been better spent planning more ways to fortify the defences of the Vale. What had Aegon done with her portrait? Feed it to his dragon? Show it to his sister-wives so they could laugh at Queen Regent Sharra Arryn of the Vale, together?

 _Were it not for my sons, and my people, I would rather die that wed one such as yourself._ She had not written this in the letter, of course; so  _that_  could not account for the deafening silence coming from Aegon Targaryen.

Lord Corbray coughed, before saying, carefully, “The Storm King offered the Lord of Dragonstone his daughter’s hand in marriage - a fair and comely maiden, this Argella Durrandon – and Aegon refused him as well. He offered his bastard brother Orys Baratheon to King Argilac instead. It seems that Aegon Targaryen has no interest in taking another wife, whoever the woman may be.”

“A man already possessed of two wives with fiery dragons of their own would be wise to tread very carefully,” Lord Redfort mused. “His wives might be sorely tempted to feed him to their dragons were he to take another wife.”

They might be equally tempted to feed the new wife to their dragons, Sharra thought. Her thought then turned to the one condition she had stated in her letter to Aegon. Could  _that_ have been the real problem? The Lord of Dragonstone was still childless and heirless - his sister-wives not having seen fit to give him any children as yet – but he, and his wives, might still balk at naming Sharra’s son Ronnel as his heir.

But her son was king! She could not have traded away his birthright for anything less.

“A refusal accompanied by a counter-offer is one thing, but to have received no reply at all, to be ignored completely, that is  _far_  more insulting,” Lord Royce muttered darkly, replying to Lord Corbray and paying not the slightest bit of attention to Lord Redfort’s remark.

“It is done,” Queen Sharra declared, in a voice that brooked no argument. “We must be prepared for an attack. To indulge our wounded pride and affronted honor in these times will do nothing to strengthen our defences or to protect our people.”


	7. Chapter 7

**The _Almost,_ But Not Quite _,_  Lady of Casterly Rock (Ellyn Reyne)**

_“and who are you, the proud Ellyn said, that I must bow so low?”_

Oh but she was  _furious_! Fate had ill-served her time and time again, had cheated her twice over – no, thrice, now – each time stealing from Ellyn Reyne her rightful due, turning all her hard work into  _dust_ , into  _ashes_.

Did they think it was  _easy_ , doing what needed to be done?  _She_  never had any such illusion, Lady Ellyn of House Reyne, sister to the Red Lion, widow to Ser Tion Lannister (formerly heir to Casterly Rock, currently heir to nothing at all.) 

He  _struck_  her. How _dare_  he? “I should have done that long ago,” her good-father bellowed. “I should have done that the first time you climbed into his bed and bewitched my poor Tion into breaking his betrothal with Lord Rowan’s daughter.”

“Your son did not need much convincing, if I recall, much less any bewitching.” The promise of her favor and merely the subtle hints of the delights and pleasures she would rain on him once they were married was enough to persuade Tion. She had not even needed to spread her legs, or to kiss him in places more indiscreet than his mouth, to convince him to set aside his betrothal and to wed  _her_  instead.  

But then Tion was  _weak_ , weak-willed and pathetic, so very different from his golden twin. His  _dead_  golden twin. Even as Ellyn was rejoicing in her success at the time, she was already despising Tion for not being even  _half_  the man Tywald had been.

Tywald she had  _loved_. Tywald she had wanted to wed for his own sake almost as much as for the sake of being the Lady of Casterly Rock. But Tywald the elder twin had died in battle alongside her father, and Ellyn had done what needed to be done.  

Did they think it was  _easy_ , doing what needed to be done?

“Are my sons so interchangeable to you? Tywald, Tion and Tytos, all one and the same, as long as he still lives and will inherit Casterly Rock?”

It was  _not_  her fault that Tywald had died before their long betrothal had been sealed with marriage. It was  _not_  her fault that Tion had died only a year after their wedding. It was  _not_  her fault that Tion had the  _temerity_ to perish before his father, before he was Lord of Casterly Rock, before she was the Lady of Casterly Rock, before his seeds could take hold inside her, before she could give birth to the next heir to Casterly Rock.

And it was  _most_  definitely, absolutely,  _not_  her fault that Tytos Lannister, third son of Gerold Lannister, and current heir to Casterly Rock, proved to be a sniveling, whimpering weakling even  _more_  pathetic than his brother Tion had been.

He  _wept_. Loudly and copiously, in Ellyn’s bed. Wept with regret and remorse about how much he had wronged his wife, Tytos claimed.

 _May the gods spare me from the regrets of men_ , Ellyn cursed.  _And from their appalling tears._ Tywald would never have wept. Her brothers had never wept.

It was  _not_  regret, she knew that well enough. It was shame - shame and humiliation about his flaccid manhood, limp, floppy and  _useless_ \- that had driven Tytos running and weeping from Ellyn’s bed into his wife’s embrace, “confessing” everything purportedly, but in truth putting almost all of the blame on his good-sister, and reserving very little for himself.

And that simpering Jeyne Marbrand had not waited long to brandish her claws, had paused only very briefly to wipe her husband’s tears before going straight to her good-father to tell all.

“Is nothing sacred to you? Not a betrothal, not even the vows of marriage?” Gerold Lannister was still droning  _on_  and  _on_  and  _on_.

“Your son is  _weak_ ,” Ellyn replied. “Too eager to please everyone, too afraid to offend anyone. And you know this as well as I do. When you are gone, Tytos will need a pair of strong hands to push him, to force him to be the strong lord that Casterly Rock deserves. That Casterly Rock  _needs_. He is a lion whose claws need constant sharpening. And I am the only woman equal to that task.”

“His own wife is not equal to that task, I suppose?”

“Jeyne loves her husband. And that makes her  _useless_  in that regard.”

“Jeyne is his wife! They are married in the eyes of gods and men. And she has not done any wrong to her husband, or to our House.”

“Wives can be set aside. There are many precedents, as you well know. You must think of the good of Casterly Rock and the Westerlands, and not allow softer feelings and sentiments to blind you to what needs to be done.”

Gerold laughed, bitterly. “Am I supposed to believe that your intentions are entirely selfless?  _It is all for the good of Casterly Rock_ ,” Gerold mocked. “Do you take me for a fool?” He asked, scoffing.

“I will be the Lady that Casterly Rock deserves. The Lady that Casterly Rock  _needs_.“

And she deserved it, Ellyn thought. She  _deserved_  to be the Lady of Casterly Rock. She had earned it, worked and strived and struggled for it for so long, paid for it in more ways than she could count.

This old  _fool_  standing in front of her would never understand that.

“You will never be the Lady of Casterly Rock, not even after I’m long dead and rotting in my grave,” Gerold Lannister barked. “You will wed old Walderan Tarbeck, retire to his crumbling and disintegrating castle, and never set foot in Casterly Rock again. That is my command.” Disconcerted, and perhaps even disappointed by her lack of tears, he repeated, “That is my command!”

Did the old fool think it was  _easy_ , doing what needed to be done?

Ellyn Reynealways did what needed to be done.  _Always_. She vowed, vowed that the Lannisters would soon discover to their peril and to their great detriment that the Lady Ellyn of House Reyne could not be declawed so easily, that she would never forgive or forget, and that in forcing her to become Lady Tarbeck and denying her Casterly Rock, they had sown the seed of their own destruction. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Lady Larra and Her Lost Prince (Larra Rogare/Viserys II Targaryen)**

Look at her. Just _look_ at her. Her grace, her poise, her unshaken composure, her dignity. And yes, her unsurpassed beauty. Viserys marvels still at his good fortune, that this woman – not a girl, not a child like his brother’s wife – this _woman_ , with everything that the word implies, is his wife. That he, a callow youth seven years her inferior, truly  _is_  her husband.

Here she is, murmuring words of comfort and reassurance to her ladies-in-waiting.  And there she goes, darting to the queen’s side to soothe that anxious girl-child with tales of romance and chivalry. Little Queen Daenaera loves the story of lost Prince Viserys and Lady Larra of Lys most of all. “Tell me again, sister,” she would say, for that is what she has taken to calling her good-sister, “tell me again how you and Viserys found each other, and saved one another.”

In the middle of the telling, Larra’s eyes accidentally met her husband’s own, and Viserys sees the heavy toll that seemingly effortless poise and composure is actually taking on her. There is a look in her eyes, and a certain expression on her face, glimpsed only during her rare, unguarded moments, that drives Viserys wild with dismay and trepidation.

_Have I not made you as happy as you have made me?_

Eyebrow raised, a sign understood between husband and wife, Larra asks, silently,  _what news, husband?_   

 _No news as yet, my love_ , Viserys replies, equally silently, with an almost imperceptible shake of his head. No news about the fate of her brothers, or about her own arrest, or when, if ever, the men besieging the castle will finally leave.

Her face betraying nothing, Larra turns her attention back to Daenaera, whose head is now leaning on Larra’s shoulder.

“Poor child,” Larra says about the queen, when she returns to her husband’s side. “She is afraid that those men gathered outside will break down the doors and push us all out the window to our death.” Lowering her voice, Larra whispers, “Daenaera has been having nightmares about Queen Jaehaera’s body impaled on the spikes.”  

Jaehaera was already dead by the time Viserys returned from Lys. Aegon spoke of her very rarely, if ever, but it was  _her_  name he invoked when he refused entry to the men dispatched by Marston Waters to seize Larra. “I will not allow it! Not again. Not this time. One Hand was given charge of Queen Jaehaera and he plotted to have her killed, to have my wife  _murdered_. And now another Hand wishes to arrest my brother’s wife on false, made-up charges. Will this Hand fake a suicide too, for Lady Larra? I might be a boy-king at the mercy of my regents in their eyes, but I am still king for all that.”    

Gazing at the king standing alone, forlornly, at a distance from his wife, at a distance from everyone, it seems, Larra says, “All this for one woman. If he allows me to be arrested, it will be over for everyone else.”

 _No_ , Viserys insists,  _my brother will never do that_.

“I must make a show of force,” Aegon had said earlier, rebuffing Viserys’ earnest and heartfelt attempt to thank his brother, to show his gratitude. “This has naught to do with you, or Larra, or even the Rogare. These high and mighty regents who believe they could rule me so easily must be made to see that the time for that has long since passed.”

There is  _that_ , true, and no one is happier than the king’s own brother to see the king so emboldened, so determined. And yet there is guilt too, Viserys knows. The guilt of an older brother who flew away atop his dragon, leaving the little brother on his own, desperately clutching his un-hatched dragon egg. The guilt of an older brother who escaped, leaving behind his little brother to uncertain fate.

Viserys could say to his brother, “ _I never blamed you, or despised you for it. You were only a boy scarcely older than I was, a boy who was as terrified as I had been,_ ” again and again and again, until he is blue in the face, but it will not change how Aegon feels in the slightest.  

“I abandoned my brother once. I will not do that again,” Aegon tells Larra.

“I am not your brother, Your Grace. I am his wife. You can let those men arrest me in good conscience, if that is your wish.”

“You are his  _life_. How could I?”


	9. Chapter 9

**Usury (Orys Baratheon, Lord Wyl of Wyl and Walter Wyl)**

“The king paid you the ransom worth our weight in gold. Our weight while we were still whole, before you chopped off our sword hands. You must return those hands you stole from my men and from myself, whatever state they might be in,” Orys demanded.

Lord Wyl stared at Orys with disbelief, before laughing uproariously. “Should I put those hands in a box for you, Lord Baratheon? Argilac Durrandon - no, forgive me, your  _good-father_  - returned the chopped hands of the envoy sent to propose the match between yourself and his daughter in a box carved with prancing stags and the Durrandon words, I heard.  _Ours is the Fury_. So very apt, I have always thought.”

“You can put those hands in a sack of old cloth if you wish, but you  _must_ return them. King Aegon has paid for  _all_  of us, not just parts of us.”

“And what will you do, the once mighty and proud Lord Baratheon, with a sack full of rotting, reeking, decaying hands? There is not a single maester in all the Seven Kingdoms with the skill or the power to magically reattach those limbs.”

“What I wish to do with those hands is not your concern. King Aegon has paid the ransom, and now you must return everything you took.  _Everything_ , including our sword hands.”

“I think not. The sight of those rotting hands dangling in my courtyard like strings of onions gives me pleasure and untold satisfaction. Your king, his men and his dragons have brought untold misery to Dorne and to the Dornish people. What I have done is  _nothing_ , by comparison. What have I taken from you, after all? I have taken from you the ability to take arms against Dorne. Only that. I have not taken your life.”  

_You already stole three years of my life, spent in captivity in your dark dungeon._

_And stealing a man’s sword hand is no different than stealing the rest of his life._

“Then you must return to the king the weight of gold corresponding to the weight of our sword hands. That is only  _just_ ,” Orys persisted.

Lord Wyl laughed even louder. “I will keep  _all_  the gold, and all the rotting hands too. Call it usury, if you wish. You should be grateful that I do not charge as high an interest as the banks.”

 _Usury_.

Lord Wyl of Wyl had forgotten that  _Ours is the Fury_  was now the Baratheon’s words, but Orys Baratheon would never forget that his captor had charged a heavy interest.

“My father took only your sword hand. Spare me my other limbs,” Walter Wyl would plead, thirty years later, after he was taken captive and delivered into Orys’ hand, after Orys had hacked off his sword hand.   

“Call it usury,” Orys replied, before hacking off Walter Wyl’s other hand, and his two feet besides.  


	10. Chapter 10

**For the prompt: Aerea Targaryen and her thoughts after she was no longer heir to the throne**

He was  _evil_ , her great-uncle, her stepfather. Everyone said so. A bad, bad man like the monsters in the stories, a cruel man who murdered his brother to gain a throne, who stole his nephew’s crown, his nephew’s wife.   

His nephew’s  _daughter_.

He sat Aerea on the Iron Throne and said, grinning, “You are like a daughter to me now. You are my heir, sweetling. This throne will be yours, someday.”  

(Lies, all lies. Everyone said so. He made Aerea his heir to spite her uncle Jaehaerys. But he never meant to make her queen at all. He forced himself on Mother and his other wives night after night, desperate to make a son of his own blood to put on the throne. The gods knew he was a monster, Mother said, so they gave him only monsters, not sons, not even daughters.)

“I am not your daughter,” she told him. “I am not your blood.” Her father was _good_. Her father was  _brave_ , like the knights in the stories. Her father was  _not_  a monster. She did not want to be the daughter of a monster.

The grin vanished from his face. Furious, he snatched her hand, swiping her palm on the sharp, jagged edge of the throne. She cried out in pain, in fear. He swiped  _his_  palm too, to add to the other wounds his precious, coveted throne had already inflicted on him.

He laughed. “You are my blood now,” he declared, forcing her palm to meet his, forcing their blood to mingle, to blend. Her little feet kicked his bloodied hands. Now it was  _his_  turn to cry out in pain. But there was no fear in him, only rage, only wrath; at her, at the gods, at the whole world, for thwarting his will.   

She ran.

Later, she ran again, with her mother and her twin sister. The monster died sitting on the throne. By his own hand, some said, too cowardly to face defeat. The Iron Throne itself slayed him, others whispered, not willing to suffer a monster to sit on it.  

Uncle Jaehaerys sat on the throne, and he was _good_. He was  _not_  a monster, like the previous king. He was a good king. Everyone said so.

 _My father was good_ , Aerea said.  _My father was not a monster. My father would have been a good king too._

No one remembered her father. No one remembered that her father was supposed to be king. No one remembered her father had died trying to save the realm from the monster.

She was Father’s heir, wasn’t she?

 _Men would not fight a war to put a little girl on the throne_ , Mother said.

_Not even against the monster?_

_No._

_What about a little boy? What if I had a brother? Would they have fought a war to put my brother on the throne?_

_You have no brother. Your uncle Jaehaerys is a good king. And he is not the monster. Anything is better than the monster._

Uncle Jaehaerys named his eldest son Aemon as his heir.

 _Aerea and Aemon_ , Mother hinted. If not a ruling queen – which was never going to happen, since the monster  _lied, lied, lied_  – at least a queen consort for Aerea. For the girl who was once named and declared to be heir to the throne in front of the whole realm, even if it was only the monster playing his cruel games.

 _I owe a debt of gratitude to the Baratheons_ , Uncle Jaehaerys said, refusing.

Uncle Jaehaerys married one son to a Baratheon, another son to his own daughter, and gave the last to the Citadel. None for Aerea, none for her twin sister Rhalla. None for the daughters of his eldest brother Prince Aegon, who should have been king.

_He never made me his blood! The monster never made me his daughter. And Rhalla was not with him at all that day._

And yet, why were they both forgotten, set aside, treated as if their blood had been tainted by Maegor the Cruel after all?  


	11. Chapter 11

**For the prompt: Betha Blackwood and her thoughts about her daughter Rhaelle being betrothed to Lyonel Baratheon’s heir.**

“I find it strange, Mother, to see you being so set against Rhaelle’s betrothal,” Shaera said, in  _that_  tone, the tone of voice she often affected these days to show her dissatisfaction with her mother.

Betha sighed. What now? How else had she disappointed her elder daughter? How else had she – in Shaera’s words – “ _participated, aided and abetted in persecuting her own children_ ”?

_Children should be a comfort to their mother and father, not a constant source of worry._

Her mother’s old admonition still rang in Betha’s ears.

_One day, you will have children of your own, Betha. And I pray to all the gods old and new that none of your children will turn out to be as willful and as stubborn as you are. For your own sake, child._

Obviously, her mother’s prayers had fallen on gods’ deaf ears.

“Mother, you are not even listening!” Shaera exclaimed, sulking.

“Why is it so strange, Shaera? Tell me. Enlighten me, if you will.”

“Well, how is this any different? How is Father promising Rhaelle’s hand in marriage to Lord Baratheon’s heir any different than you and Father arranging my marriage to Lord Tyrell’s heir, without even asking me if I wish to marry that … that … that  _oaf_ , that foul man with even fouler breath?”

“Now that is pure nonsense, Shaera. Luthor Tyrell does not have foul breath.”

“He most certainly  _does_! I sat next to him during the betrothal feast, for  _hours_  after excruciating  _hours_. I should know, Mother.”

“Well, for one thing, Luthor Tyrell’s father never committed treason, never took arms against your father,” Betha snapped. Duncan was in the wrong, certainly, for breaking his betrothal to Lord Baratheon’s daughter. But Duncan had already renounced his claim to the throne, had already given up being the Prince of Dragonstone, when Lyonel Baratheon renounced  _his_  allegiance to the Iron Throne and declared himself the Storm King. Surely there was a limit to the amount of reparation they were supposed to pay the Baratheons?

“He’s been defeated!” Betha pointed out to her husband, after Lord Commander Duncan defeated Lyonel Baratheon in single combat. “Lyonel’s rebellion has failed. And yet, we are to serve our daughter on a silver platter to appease him? To soothe his wounded pride?”

“He fell in single combat. His army was not completely defeated. The stormlords will rise again, mark my word, should Lyonel ever give them the word,” Aegon had replied.

It had been a rude awakening, to see how swiftly and eagerly the stormlords had risen to support Lyonel Baratheon’s rebellion, how easily they had embraced treason to their king. Most of those lords had long been looking for an excuse, Betha suspected, a pretext to justify their opposition to the throne and to Aegon’s reforms; reforms which they claimed infringed on their gods-given rights, reforms which they saw as stealing from worthy highborn lords to give to unworthy lowly peasants.

Lyonel Baratheon’s fury about the dishonor suffered by his daughter was real enough, Betha would grant, but she very much doubted that Argella Baratheon’s dishonor was the primary consideration for the other lords. Before his daughter’s broken betrothal, Lyonel himself, by virtue of his close friendship with Aegon, could at least be counted on to not voice his opposition to Aegon’s reforms loudly in public, even if, like the other lords, he was not altogether enthusiastic about them in private.

But now, it was as if a floodgate had been opened. Duncan’s broken betrothal had given those lords the excuse they needed to brook their opposition clearly and loudly, no longer in whispers and snide asides about the king they reviled as being “more than half a peasant himself _.” Of course_  the son of such a king would rather wed a peasant girl than the daughter of an honored lord, they sneered.  

Deep down, Betha understood, of course. She understood her husband’s reasoning. She understood why Lyonel Baratheon must be appeased, one last time. And she had never shrunk from her duty as queen before.  _She_  had been the one who suggested the betrothals with the sons and daughters of the Great Houses for their children after all.

But Rhaelle … Rhaelle was her youngest. Her little girl. Her little girl who must now go to Storm’s End to live with strangers who bore her brother, and perhaps her entire family, a great resentment. A little girl who must now serve as cupbearer to the lord driven by fury to take arms against her father. A little girl who one day must wed the son of that same lord; must share his bed, must bear his children -  _Baratheon_  children.

 _If only_  …

If only Duncan had not gone to the Riverlands. If only Duncan had not seen that girl. If only Duncan had not been so blinded by -

“You married for love, Mother. You and Father both. You both  _chose_ , and yet you seek to deny your children that same choice. Could you not find it in your heart to understand why I did what I did?” Duncan had pleaded.

But understanding was one thing, and condoning was another.


	12. Chapter 12

**Argella Durrandon & Alyssa Velaryon**

The Lord of Storm’s End dithered and wavered about the right course to take, when Alyssa Velaryon and her two children arrived in Storm’s End seeking refuge and his protection. He feared the wrath of King Maegor. He feared the swing of Blackfyre taking his head. He feared the coming of dragons breathing fire over Storm’s End and the stormlands. This, from the son of the woman who once declared to Alyssa’s good-mother Queen Rhaenys that she was welcomed to take the castle if only to rule over bones and blood and ashes, for Argella Durrandon and the defenders of the castle were willing die to the last man and woman to protect it.

 _It’s a pity the son does not seem to share the mother’s boldness_ , Alyssa thought.  

“This is not our fight,” Argella declared, eyes narrowed, as if she had read Alyssa’s thought. “Why should we risk anything for the fight between dragons?”

 _Your late husband was half a dragon himself, if the rumor is to be believed._ If only Orys Baratheon was still alive. _That_ Lord of Storm’s End would not have hesitated, would have called his banners to fight Maegor the moment he usurped the throne.

“Why not seek refuge in Driftmark, Your Grace, with the Velaryons? With your own people?” Davos Baratheon asked, querulously _._

Alyssa suppressed an impatient sigh. He knew full well why not. Driftmark was too close to Dragonstone, and furthermore Lord Velaryon served still as Maegor’s master of ships. Her own people had deserted her. This was no time for impatience, though. Or for pride. She was desperate. For her children’s sake, she had to put pride aside. She would beg, beseech and plead; she would cajole, coax and flatter; and she would put a smile on her face or tears on her cheek while she did it, depending on what was required of the situation.

“Why come to Storm’s End? Why come to us?” Argella asked the question her son had only been hinting at. Davos winced. “Mother,” he murmured softly under his breath.

“Your father was renown for his leal servive to my good-father, and your own brother Ser Raymont died honorably protecting my husband’s life, my lord. Where else should I put my trust, if not in the Baratheons? Who else would be most deserving of it?”

It was the mother who replied, not the son, and her voice was steelier than ever, angrier than ever. “Then don’t you think the Baratheons have done enough for the Targaryens? Tell me, why should we involve ourselves in the quarrels between Targaryens? Why should another drop of Baratheon blood be spilled in defense of another Targaryen?”

Alyssa directed her reply to the mother this time, not the son. “It will not be forgotten, my lady. When my son is king, the loyal services rendered to us by House Baratheon will not be forgotten.”

“I have no granddaughter to be wed to your son and be made queen. I have a grandson, though he is perhaps too old for your little daughter. But then that is a moot point, is it not, since a Targaryen only deigns to wed another Targaryen, or a Velaryon as a last resort if a sibling is not available. Is that not the sacred Targaryen tradition?”

“It does not have to be so, my lady,” Alyssa replied, pretending that she had not noticed the mocking tone in which the question had been posed. “Other arrangements could be made.”

Argella scoffed, giving Alyssa a withering look. “Do you take me for a fishwife haggling for a prize?”

She had offended this old woman. This woman who used to be queen; a _ruling_ queen, not a consort, if only for too short a time. Her grip on power was still strong, if her son’s deferential manner and his worshipful gaze towards her was any indication. To convince the son, Alyssa suspected she had to convince the mother first.  

“Maegor ordered the cruel torture and murder of my son Viserys to punish me for escaping from Dragonstone. Do you want a man such as that as your king, my lady?”

“I wish for no Targaryen as my king, in truth, but –“

Robar interrupted, making his voice heard for the first time since Alyssa’s arrival. “Grandmother, remember your promise.”

“- but as my grandson is so fond of reminding me, that sort of talk is treason.” She turned to her son. Mother and son locked gaze for a long while, as if in silent communion. Alyssa held her breath.

 “You and your children are welcomed to stay in Storm’s End, Your Grace,” Davos finally said.

“Under your protection?”

“Yes, under his protection,” Argella replied, impatiently. “My son will not hand you to the enemy, not after he has given you his word.”

“And my son’s claim to the throne?”

“Your son is a mere boy of ten. If you wish to wage war for his right to sit the Iron Throne, make sure it is not a futile war. That means you will have to wait,” Argella Durrandon declared.


	13. Chapter 13

**Melissa Blackwood & Bethany Bracken**

She is trained, the younger Bracken girl, like Missy was trained, once upon a time. Trained to catch the king’s eyes, trained to hold his attention.

“I do not know how to flirt, to act coy, to be like Barba Bracken. How could His Grace favor me after someone like her? I will surely disappoint you, Uncle,” Missy had demurred.

_You promised my father on his deathbed to find me a good husband, Uncle. You never said you were going to make me the king’s whore._

“You only need to be yourself, Missy dear. The sweet, demure girl that you are. The king tires of his women quickly, and he looks for something new each time, something different from the last one to cleanse his palate. After Barba’s big, bold, seductive act, he is primed for someone like you.”

Did it say worse or well for Lord Blackwood that he would not soil his honor and use his own beloved daughters for this purpose, but only the daughter of his wild and reckless younger brother who died penniless and in debt? They laughed with derision at Lord Bracken for pushing forward his two daughters, for making whores of his own children, but was Lord Blackwood really any better?

Oh but she seems so _young_ , this new Bracken girl. So young and defenseless. So young, flighty and undisciplined, so unlike her sister, despite her training. Bethany’s eyes were wandering already; Barba was always careful to keep her concentrated gaze solely on the king in his presence.

 _Be careful, child_ , Missy wanted to shake her into awakening. _His eyes may wander, but yours may not._

The king did not come himself to send Missy away, of course. He despised scenes, could not stand them for the world, as he was always saying. (Except when he was the one making them, of course. He enjoyed scenes very much, in that case.) He sent his steward to tell her, a man who had done the king this same service many times with numerous women.

“The children will be provided for, of course,” the steward said, repeating the words as if by rote, looking and sounding bored already.

Of course _._ The king was proud of his bastards, if only as proof of his virility, if only as something to flaunt to the world, if only as cudgels to beat the queen in the head with.  

“A sum of money will be paid out to Lord Blackwood on the first day of each year for their maintenance, and the children will also be bestowed various gifts and –“

“That is not what His Grace promised me. The sum for my children’s maintenance is to go directly to me, not to my uncle. That is what the king promised.” He had indeed promised; that was the one thing Missy had insisted, had ever truly asked of him. Her uncle had benefited much and more from her ‘ _reign_ ’ as the king’s mistress. She did not wish to be dependent on him again, living her life under her uncle’s sufferance, under his oh-so-kindly patronage.   

The king gave in and suddenly ‘ _remembered_ ’ his promise; to avoid a scene, no doubt, and to hasten Missy’s departure from King’s Landing. Bethany was already making sulky faces and discontented noises about Missy’s continuing presence in the Red Keep, and the king in his first throes of passion was so very eager to please his newest acquisition.

Missy remembered what it had been like when he had been eager to please _her_ ; Missy’s Teats was what came of it, Bracken’s land stolen to be given to the Blackwoods, or Blackwood’s land returned to its rightful owner, depending on which side was telling the story. Her uncle had been so pleased. “You did well, Missy. Very well.” The Brackens were _furious_ , and her uncle’s satisfaction only deepened at the thought of their fury.

_It does not last, Bethany. It never does. Not with most men, but especially with this one in particular. I hope your sister has taught you that. I hope she has taught you well, for your own sake, child._

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Steffon & Tywin**

“You’ve grown a beard. It suits you,” Tywin said, nodding approvingly.

“Blame Orys Baratheon for his example. It seems a requirement for Lords of Storm’s End to grow a beard, the fiercer the better,” Steffon replied with a grin, making light of the statement. It was no laughing matter, in truth. He had tried growing a beard the year his lord father died, but the resulting peach fuzz made him look even younger, even less of a convincing authoritative figure. It made him feel even more like an unready pretender. He had gone clean-shaven for a while, before daring to try again. To his relief, the result was much more satisfactory this time.

 _And meanwhile, Tywin Lannister has grown a smile, a real one_ , Steffon thought, marveling at this new phenomenon. “Is married life treating you well?” he asked.

“Fair enough. I can’t complain,” Tywin replied, in his usual measured tone. There was a glint in his eyes though, a glimmer of joy or bliss recalled – nay, _relived._ This was not a man merely content in marriage. This was a man -

“You’re happy!” Steffon exclaimed, surprised at the realization. The words came out sounding almost like an accusation. _You’ve been holding out on me._

The curtain came down, fast, as it often did these days between them; as it didn’t back then, back when they were boys, back when they were constant companions. The glint swiftly disappeared. Tywin was all business again. “You sound so astonished. Did you suppose that was never a possibility?”

What _had_ he supposed? The usual things, when it came to cousins marrying cousins. And Tywin himself had never spoken a single word about passion or love when discussing his betrothal to Cousin Joanna, only about the fitness of the match and the utmost suitability of the arrangement.

Tywin had thought him foolish, Steffon suspected, for choosing a bride from a minor and relatively inconsequential House, though that judgment was never spoken as directly as that. “How long could passion last?” Tywin had asked instead.

“How long does a marriage last? I do not wish to wed a woman I dislike, or one who dislikes me in turn, and end up causing her years of misery and unhappiness,” Steffon had replied at the time, never suspecting for a moment that Tywin’s sentiment towards his own intended had anything to do with passion, or with love.

“I am happy for you. I am glad Joanna has made you happy. _Really_ glad,” Steffon said, his hand clapping Tywin’s shoulder. Tywin stared at him for a long while before reciprocating, and they finally embraced. In physical gestures at least, the past was still alive and well. For now.

“She knows me truly. She loves me for who and what I am, not for some imaginary qualities she wishes me to have,” Tywin said, the curtain rising, and for a moment, Steffon could almost believe they were boys again, confiding their deepest secrets to one another.


	15. Chapter 15

**Tywin, Aerys & Steffon**

“Are you ashamed of your father?” Aerys asks.

“I am angry. Shame has naught to do with it,” Tywin replies. Even to speak of shame would bring unpardonable shame to Lannister name and pride.

“I would be both, if it were _my_ father. Angry and ashamed both,” Aerys continues.

“Why should you be ashamed at all?” Steffon asks.

 _What does Steffon know of shame?_ _Nothing at all,_ Tywin thinks, irritated by Steffon’s question. His father struts in court, a trusted member of the king’s council and the king’s own good-son besides, while Tywin’s father makes such a botch of ruling his own lands such that the king has to send _his_ knights to restore peace and order in the westerlands. And who does His Grace appoint to lead those knights if not his trusted good-son Lord Baratheon? A stag roaming the westerlands under the dragon banners, all because that slumbering lion in Casterly Rock Tywin has to call _“my lord father”_ is toothless and clawless, weak and pride-less.  

In his grandfather’s days, such a travesty would never have occurred. Gerold the Golden would never have brought such shame, ridicule and dishonor to House Lannister.

Steffon does not understand. He could never understand. He _adores_ his father; too young to know any better, perhaps, but also by accident of birth fortunate enough to be spared the indignities of being the progeny of a father such as Lord Tytos.

Aerys pretends to understand. Aerys who claims to find his own father unsatisfactory in many ways.

“He’ll return safely, won’t he? My father,” Steffon frets, and he seems his real age for once, not the boy who is always trying to act and sound older than he is because his two closest companions are two and four years older, respectively.

“He’ll be safe enough. It’s not a _real_ war,”Aerys says. “Only some outlaws and brigands.”

 _Outlaws and brigands have swords that can kill all the same,_ Tywin thinks. And young as he is, Steffon knows this too.

This is what comes of adoring, of loving. The fear of losing.


	16. Chapter 16

**Alyssa Velaryon & Rhaena Targaryen**

When this new babe stirred in her womb, what Alyssa remembered most was how it felt the first time a babe stirred in her womb, eight-and-twenty years ago.

“Are you praying for a son?” asked her firstborn, the woman who had once been that babe eight-and-twenty years ago.

“I’m praying for a healthy child.”

“Lord Baratheon must be praying for a son. After all, a son would make so many things easier.”

 _I have brothers, and they have plenty of sons between them_ , Robar had insisted, when Alyssa protested that she was too old to be his wife, too old to provide the childless Lord of Storm’s End with an heir.   

When her babe kicked, what Alyssa remembered most was Rhaena’s face the first time her twins kicked. “Mother. Oh, Mother,” Rhaena said, wonder, fear and exultation flitting across her face, one by one.

On their grandmother’s insistence, Rhaena’s twins were carefully marked with red and black string respectively, never to be taken off their wrists, to denote the order of birth. “There could be a question of succession later,” Alyssa said, “and we must be clear on who is the elder girl.”

“That will not be an issue. We’ll have plenty of sons later,” Aegon had said complacently, kissing Rhaena’s brow.

Aegon did not live long enough to father any son.

_I tried, Rhaena. I tried and I failed. It was difficult to rally people to fight to put a little girl on the throne. And it became impossible after Maegor named Aerea his heir. How could we fight a rebellion against Maegor in the name of the child Maegor already claimed as his heir? Even if it was a lie, even if it was only his dirty trick, it was still powerful lie._

She had to choose. She chose the possible over the impossible. She chose the path most likely to save them all, Rhaena and her twin daughters included.

Yet she was still haunted by the thought of Rhaena’s unspoken condemnation. _You chose your son over your daughter and your granddaughters, Mother_.

“I chose too,” Rhaena said. She had supported her brother’s proclamation to sit the Iron Throne. “I chose my daughters’ safety over Aerea’s birthright.”

Alyssa thanked the gods Rhaena never had to choose which child would live or die. Alyssa had to choose. She chose the children she could save over the one she could not. 

Viserys’ screams and cries haunted her still. _You chose Jaehaerys and Alysanne over me, Mother._

“That was never your choice, Mother. That was never a choice at all. That was the monster and his cruel malice.”

“Tell me what he did to you, Rhaena.” They had never truly spoken of it, of Rhaena’s time as one of Maegor’s Black Brides.

“He didn’t break me. He tried his best, but he failed. You taught me to be strong, Mother. You taught me to endure, to survive.”

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Alyssa Velaryon/Robar Baratheon**

“I remind you of your mother.”

 “Not _that_ again. You look nothing like my late mother.”

 “I remind you of your grandmother.” The indomitable Argella Durrandon, still surviving almost fifty years after the Conquest that made her a lady instead of a queen, her eyes blazing suspicion, watching her beloved grandson never far from the side of the Queen Regent fourteen years his senior.   

Robar laughs. “It is true, I _did_ propose to her once. I challenged her husband to single combat for her hand in marriage. I was a boy of six at the time, mind you. Grandmother said she has neither the time nor the patience to learn the ways of a new husband. So Grandfather and I agreed to a truce instead. We shook hands and polished off a whole pie between us.”

Oh he could be charming, Robar Baratheon, when he puts his mind to it. Alyssa refuses to be coaxed into a smile. “She _knows_ ,” Alyssa says. “Your grandmother knows. About us.”

“She knows almost everything. Very little gets by her.”

“She knows, and she does not approve.” Though, Alyssa could not tell whether it is her age or her Targaryen connection that proves to be her biggest flaw in Argella Durrandon’s eyes.

“She loves me, and she will make her peace with it. I am certain of that,” Robar says, full of the arrogant confidence of youth.

 _You are too young,_ Alyssa thinks, though he is almost nine-and-twenty. Too young for her three-and-forty. “I already had a husband who needed a mother to coddle him more than he needed a wife,” she says. “I have neither the time nor the patience for another like him.”

“The late King Aenys was born the same year as you were.”

“Maturity is more than just about age.”  

“Well, there you go,” Robar says, beaming with satisfaction. “You have made my point for me.” Then, frowning, he asks, “Do you think of him still?”

“Aenys? Sometimes.”

“Do you think of him with affection?”

With compassion. Or is it really pity? “I think he could not help being who he was.”

She had been stronger than Aenys, more determined. But she had not been strong enough for the both of them. If only she had been as strong as Visenya. As determined. As … ruthless?

No, not that. Not the last one.

There are those who condemn Alyssa for ruthlessness comparable to Visenya and Maegor, as if there is truly no difference between consciously choosing to harm another, and being forced to make terrible choices in impossible circumstances.

_She was the woman who escaped from her enemy and caused her son to be tortured in retaliation. She was the heartless mother who did not come to claim her son’s body, who left him to rot in the courtyard of the Red Keep._

What do they know of her anguish? Of the ghosts she lives with, still, to this day, to this hour, to this moment? Should she have abandoned Jaehaerys and Alysanne to suffer the same fate as Viserys? Would that have made her a less cold and heartless mother in the eyes of her condemners?  

You choose what seems to be the least terrible of all the terrible choices at the time, and you live with the consequences. You live with the consequences, you live with your guilt and your regret, and you force yourself to take the next step. And the next. And the ones after that, all the while knowing that the weight is yours to carry and yours alone, because you are the only one strong enough to carry it.

And isn’t that part of Robar’s attraction for her, that he is strong enough in his own right? That he is not Aenys grasping for her coattails, always needing to be reassured, to be placated, always _needing_ , never sharing. This man, this younger man who wishes to wed her; he speaks his mind, he _knows_ his own mind, he could be _trusted_ to share the weight with her, as he had done so in the four years in Storm’s End she spent furiously working and planning to ensure the safety of her children, as he continues to do so now while they are sharing the rule of the realm until her son comes of age.  

But that is part of his danger, too. What if she is tempted? What if she is tempted, after all the years of constant struggling, to give in, to say, “There, now you can be strong for the both of us. I yield.”

She could not abide that. She could not abide to be the Aenys in this new marriage, if there _is_ to be a new marriage.

“Just because I admire some of the traits you share with my grandmother does not mean it is my grandmother I truly want to wed and bed,” Robar grumbles

“I know.”

“The why do you fear this? Why do you fear _us_?”

 She tells him why. And in the telling, in the act of sharing that weight of uncertainty with him, she manages to assuage some of her doubts, if not all. She had not been tempted to yield during the worst years of her life after all. She had forced herself to take the next step. And the next. And all the ones after that, until she is where is now.

You choose, and you live with the consequences. That is the only kind of hope she could still believe in.


	18. Chapter 18

**Aegon V Targaryen & Duncan Targaryen**

He had his mother’s eyes, Egg’s firstborn; eyes as black as a raven’s feather, shining brightly from the face of a beautiful boy conceived beneath the great dead weirwood tree in Raventree’s godswood. Here, under the same weirwood tree where they had earlier recited one of the two wedding vows customary for the union between a Targaryen and a Blackwood, Aegon and Betha swore a different kind of oath, not to any gods old or new, but to each other, to the love they bore one another.

The boy they conceived with love under that weirwood tree would grow to be a man who cited love as one of his reasons for overlooking his duty. Love, and his father’s dream of a different kind of realm.   

“You were the one who taught me that highborn or lowborn, titled or untitled, underneath it all, we are all the same, all deserving of the king’s justice and the king’s protection.”

“But it is not merely justice and protection you are extending to this girl. You sought to raise her too high above and beyond her rank. Did you ever consider what a struggle life with you will be for her, all the hardship she will have to endure?”

“I love her. And she loves me. The rest, we will face together.”  

“You are heir to the throne. You will be king. You are already betrothed. You do not have the luxury to marry for love.”

“ _You_ married for love, Father. Have you forgotten that?”

“I was not heir to the throne when I wed your mother. I was not betrothed to another woman. And your mother was a Blackwood of Raventree Hall, not a girl of uncertain origin wandering the riverlands like a wraith.”

“And what would you have me do, Father? Put Jenny away? Force her to join the Silent Sisters?”

“If the marriage is not yet consummated, there is no need to put her away. The marriage could be set aside without doing her any harm. A new husband could easily be found for her, someone more suitable, someone who could protect her.”

“It _has_ been consummated. And I will not lie about the consummation so my marriage could be set aside.”

“I am still king. I could command this girl to be put away, without your consent.”

“Will you truly go that far? All your dreams, Father, all your dreams and your aspirations. Has it come to this? You dream of a better realm, ruled by a different kind of king who cares for _all_ his subjects, regardless of birth or rank. That dream you taught me, made me share in all its glory; were they merely empty words without substance? Will you now act as cruelly as the tyrant kings of old, trampling on the helpless innocents? Is Jenny not one of your subjects, deserving of your justice and your protection?”

“It was _you_ who put her in this position, Duncan, by marrying her when you were already betrothed to another. It was you who put _me_ in this position.”

“You named me Duncan in honor of the man who taught you to see the world beyond birth or rank. Do you blame me for seeing the world the way you have always intended me to see it?”

“I never intended for you to go this far. To see all the king’s subjects regardless of birth or rank as human beings equally deserving of the king’s justice and protection, yes, certainly, but …“

“But not to love one of them as my equal?”

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Jaehaerys II Targaryen & his Hand Ormund Baratheon**

“I am king,” Jaehaerys said, still with that note of disbelief in his voice. The crown was on his head still, the crown the High Septon had placed on his head during his coronation earlier in the day.

“You _are_ king, Your Grace,” Ormund replied. “You have been king since the day your lord father died.” 

“They were calling for King Duncan, the smallfolks. Did you hear it?”

Prince Duncan had been beloved by the smallfolks, even after he renounced his claim to the throne. They grieved for him as much as they grieved for their dead king. “Your brother is dead,” Ormund said. “It matters not who is calling for him.”

“Perhaps the realm would be in better hands had my brother not renounced his claim to the throne in the first place.”

Ormund suppressed a sigh. This was no time for his good-brother to be indulging in his recurring bouts of self-doubt and uncertainty. The realm needed a decisive hand on the tiller to return it to stability after the tragedy at Summerhall, not a king who agonized whether he truly belonged on the throne.

“Prince Duncan chose his path, knowing the consequences,” Ormund reminded Jaehaerys.

“And I chose mine. I broke my betrothal, just like my brother did. _Two_ betrothals, in fact, counting Shaera’s. And yet –“

“And yet you married a princess fit to be queen of the realm. That made all the difference.” Of course, the fact that unlike the Baratheons, the Tullys and the Tyrells had not rebelled after _their_ broken betrothals made a difference as well, but Ormund was not about to bring that up. He had worked too hard to prove his loyalty to the Iron Throne, to wash away the taint of treason from House Baratheon.

_Lord Lyonel would never have stooped so low. Lord Lyonel would have had too much pride._

_Pity the son is as not as bold as the father. Pity the son is content merely serving a king, instead of being king._

Ormund knew the thoughts roiling in Jaehaerys’ head. He had been there as well, after the death of his lord father, after his own ascension as Lord of Storm’s End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. 

He moved closer towards his good-brother, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We can only be the best king or the best lord we can be. We can never be anyone else. Not our brother, not our father.”

Jaehaerys closed his eyes. “What if I fail?”

“You will not.” Jaehaerys was capable and intelligent, if not martial. “And I will be by your side every step of the way,” Ormund promised.

Jaehaerys opened his eyes, smiling. “My good-brother. My Hand, my right hand man,” he said, putting _his_ hand on Ormund’s shoulder.


	20. Chapter 20

“But where did they go?” Shireen remembered asking Maester Cressen, long ago, after he began teaching her the history of House Baratheon.

“Who, my lady?”

“The Ladies of Storm’s End, even the Storm Queen. They married, or they gave birth to an heir, and then they disappeared, never to be mentioned again.” Surely they did not _all_ die in childbirth, Shireen thought.   

“Ah … as to that, the historical accounts are mostly concerned with the deeds of lords and kings, not their wives,” Maester Cressen had replied, somewhat ruefully.

“But I want to know. I want to know what happened to them.”

“Their stories are lost to us, I am afraid.”

Later, as Shireen grew, she wanted to know more than just the rudimentary facts of what happened. Were they happy? Merely content? Or were they unhappy? Perhaps even tormented? Did they resent, regret, forgive, forswore? Were they loved? Did they love in return? Did they find some measure of peace? Or died with a curse on their lips and a curse in their heart?

She thinks of Argella Durrandon, barring the gates of Storm’s End, declaring herself the Storm Queen, before losing her birthright to the man who would be her husband and the father to her children.

She thinks of Alyssa Velaryon, pushing her way through the gates of Storm’s End, counting on the loyalty of its lord to shelter her children and defend her son’s claim to the throne, before passing through those same gates again years later as the new Lady of Storm’s End.

She thinks of Rhaelle Targaryen, pushed through the gates of Storm’s End as payment for a debt contracted by her brother and her father.

She thinks of her grandmother, the joyous bride carried across the gates of Storm’s End by her exultant husband, one of the few times the sound of merry laughter had accompanied a wedding in this castle.   

She thinks of her mother, never once making her way past the gates of Storm’s End, the Lady of Storm’s End who never was.

Will her own story be lost as well?

She is the last trueborn Baratheon. Storm’s End is hers by right. She will craft her own story, inside these gates.


	21. Chapter 21

**Aegon V Targaryen & Steffon Baratheon**

_Kill the boy and let the man be born_ , his brother Aemon had told him. Is it the price of being a man, to be disillusioned, to lose hope and faith in most things?

_It is futile. Aegon the Dragonsbane tried and failed. It will not work._

It _has_ to work. There _must_ be a way. He is determined to find a way. For the good of the realm. For his people, for they _are_ his people, his duty and his responsibility, all of them, especially the most defenseless and powerless of them.

_It takes a man to rule. An Aegon, not an Egg._

He is an old man now, a grandfather three times over, and yet there are days when he wakes feeling like that boy still, wounded and astonished by the cruelties and vagaries of the world.

An Aegon would not sit still doing nothing while his plans for a better realm is thwarted and destroyed. An Aegon would not give in and surrender while his people are mistreated, wronged and neglected. An Aegon would find a way.

He reads and rereads the account of Aegon III’s failed attempt to bring back the dragons. _Where did you go wrong? What did you miss?_ He does not notice his grandson coming in to light the candles. The sun is setting. He had been reading for hours.

In his royal page raiment, Steffon looks a fine figure of a boy. He is full of ready smile and eager chatter in the presence of his grandfather, though Betha tells her husband that the boy still cries out for his mother and father in his sleep on some nights.

Glancing at the illustration of the last dragon to perish, Steffon asks, “What name did you want to give your dragon, if your egg had hatched, Grandfather?”

Aegon smiles. “We had so many names we thought of, my brother Aemon and I. I have forgotten most of them. It has been so long since I was a boy.”

_Where did the years go, Aemon? I wish you are here with me now, brother._

Letters are not the same, not a substitute for actual presence. He suppresses a sigh, puts the smile back on his face before asking the youngest of his grandchildren, “What name would _you_ give your dragon, Steffon?”

Steffon looks doubtful. “But I’m not a Targaryen, I’m a Baratheon. How can I ride a dragon?”

“You are still my grandchild, just like Aerys and Rhaella. You have your mother’s blood in you, Targaryen blood.”

Steffon considers the question. Finally, with a bright smile, he says, “I like the name of Princess Baela’s dragon best of all.”

“Moondancer?”

Steffon nods. “But since I’m a Baratheon as well as a Targaryen, if I had a dragon, I would name him Stormdancer.”

“Not Stagdancer?” Aegon teases.

Steffon laughs. “No, not Stagdancer. After all, Grandfather Lyonel was known as the Laughing Storm, not the Laughing Stag.”

“And can Stormdancer ride through a fierce storm?”

“The fiercest!” Steffon replies excitedly, lost in the world of imagination. “We’ll come and rescue you from the storm, Grandfather, and bring you back safely to the Red Keep. Or to Summerhall, if you prefer.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Shiera** **Blackwood and her younger sister**

“He will make you queen, Shiera,” Bethany says, waiting for her older sister to pour the wine into her goblet. Shiera is married to Bethany’s stepson, which is why she is expected to defer to her younger sister in Storm’s End, to defer to the queen consort of the Storm King.

Shiera says nothing, at first. She fills Bethany’s wine goblet first, before filling her own, as is proper. Bethany smiles. “Your goodfather has promised to make you queen of the riverlands,” she continues.

“But Tytos is Father’s heir. Tytos should be king.”

“Tytos is eight. Arlan says he is too young to be a competent king. And you know our greedy and rapacious uncles would not hesitate to challenge our little brother. Arlan says that for the sake of maintaining peace in theriverlands, it is better to make _you_ queen. You are Father’s firstborn after all, his eldest child,” Bethany replies, secretly proud of the way her tongue smoothly rolls out her husband’s name as if she is used to calling him by his name, when in truth, she has never addressed him as anything other than ‘ _my king_ ’ and _‘Your Grace.’_

“And for the sake of making his son king of the riverlands, of course,” Shiera replies, scoffing.

“I thought you are very fond of Durran.” Young and comely Durran Durrandon, Shiera’s husband, King Arlan’s eldest son and heir, and Bethany’s stepson. How Bethany had wept, when her father told her that it was notDurran she would be marrying, but Durran’s father, a man thirty years her senior.

 (“But Shiera is my older sister. Why shouldn’t King Arlan choose your eldest daughter for himself, Father?” Bethany had protested. “Wouldn’t that be more fitting?” It was Durran who came to Raventree Hall bringing his father’s missive. It was Durran who had caught Bethany’s eyes. It was Durran in her dreams, in the fragment of songs she wrote in secret, in the prayers she recited in the godswood. Not his father. Not old King Arlan.

“He wants _you_ , child. King Arlan chooses you for himself, not Shiera. Think of it as a great honor. You will be the Storm Queen,” Roderick Blackwood had replied.

A queen in name only. Arlan treated her like a child, like a little girl only there for his amusement. He never came to her for counsel, or to share his troubles, the way Durran does with Shiera.

But it’s different this time. This time, Arlan came to Bethany and asked her to speak to her sister. “Try to convince Shiera that this is the right course to take, my dear,” he had said, patting her hand. “I depend on you,” he added solemnly.)

“Durran will rule by your side, of course, as befitting his station,” Bethany continues.

“The riverlords will not stand for it, to be ruled by an outsider.”

“Durran is not truly an outsider. He is your husband. And you will be queen, Shiera. A ruling queen, not merely his consort. Think about that.”

Shiera closes her eyes. She is imagining it, imagining herself as a ruling queen, Bethany thinks, smiling to herself. _I will not fail you, husband._ Arlan will see how capable she is. He will cease to treat her like a child.  

“I will not be his puppet. I will not be your husband’s puppet,” Shiera declares, when her eyes are finally opened. “If he wants to put me on the throne for the sole purpose of ruling the riverlands through me –“

“Oh I’m sure your goodfather has no such intention,” Bethany swiftly replies, kissing her sister’s cheek. Arlan is too busy ruling his own lands to bother much with the riverlands, she is certain. He only marched to war because his goodfather called for his assistance, not to conquer the riverlands. And Shiera has always dreamed of ruling after their father. She had been Father’s heir for a long time, until a son was finally born to Roderick Blackwood late in his life. Shiera had wept, when Tytos was born. _I wept for joy, Father_ , she had claimed, but Bethany knew better. She knew her sister.

 _We will both get what we wish for, sister._ A crown for Shiera. A husband who treats her like a grown woman worthy of respect for Bethany.


	23. Chapter 23

**AU: Cassana did not accompany Steffon to Volantis.**

She pushes them inside, her two older sons, pushes them away from the parapet so they will not see. So they will not see their father’s ship crashing into the rocks. So they will not be another Baratheon in a long line of Baratheons standing helplessly by witnessing the death of a parent.  

_It must be a lie_ , Steffon had said, the day he returned from the Stepstones with the bones of his father. _It must be a lie what Davos Baratheon claimed, that his father died with a smile on his lips._

_I will return_ , Steffon had whispered, between long, lingering kisses, the day Windproud sailed for Volantis. _I promise you, Cassana._

_Don’t,_ she had replied, putting her finger on his lips, shuddering as she recalled Lord Ormund making the same promise to Princess Rhaelle. _Do not tempt the gods with your promise._

_There is a price for loving,_ Princess Rhaelle had said. _You know the price, Cassana. You have seen me paying it._

But there is seeing, and then there is actually living through it. No amount of the first could ever prepare you for the second.

When she screams, when Cassana finally screams – in grief, in sorrow, in dread, in anger, in frustration, in bone-chilling desperation – it is her second son who comes to her, who holds her awkwardly in his arms as she weeps.

“I prayed, Mother,” Stannis says, when his mother’s tears are spent. “Why didn’t the gods listen?” he asks, his eyes shining with unshed tears and unanswered questions.

“We have each other, the four of us. We will listen to one another,” Cassana replies, folding him into her embrace.

 


	24. Chapter 24

“None of them? None of the lords will speak out to champion my claim to the throne?”

Elaena nods.

“Perhaps if _you_ were the eldest sister, they would have been more willing. Your tongue is not as sharp as mine, your conduct not as brazen, your smile not a serpent’s smile, your laugh not a whore’s laugh. Or is that the other way around? Should it be a serpent’s laugh and a whore’s smile? They say so many things about me, it’s hard to remember them all.”

“Daena, don’t –“

“Or if Rhaena were the eldest sister. Who could object to our sweet sister after all? Kindly, pious, gentle, accommodating Rhaena. They would have flocked to put her on the throne. But not me. Not shrill Daena. Not defiant Daena. Not Daena who wants to do the things only men are supposed to do, like ride in a tourney, or, gods forbid, rule the Seven Kingdoms. Not Daena who doesn’t know her place, who never learned to be content with her place.”   

Elaena shakes her head, sadly. “You know as well as I do that is not the truth of it. It has nothing to do with you, with me, with Rhaena, with who we are as human beings. They would have found other excuses to object to Rhaena and me as well. Different excuses than the ones put forward about you, certainly - that Rhaena is too meek and weak to be trusted to rule a kingdom, perhaps, or that I am too fond of pageantry and frivolity to be taken seriously - but there would have been excuses nonetheless. Because … well, you _know_ why. ”

“Because it only truly has to do with who we are as women, and in their eyes, there is never the _‘right’_ kind of women.”

Elaena nods. “But it will be different, one day,” she says, grasping her sister’s hands with both of hers. “We must believe that.”

Daena scoffs. “Why? Why must we believe it? Why must we believe in something that has proven itself to be illusory, over and over again? It will _never_ be different. We would be fools to believe otherwise.”

“Because if we do not believe it, then who is there to work towards it? And if we do not work towards it, if we do not work towards making it different, then it will certainly never be different.”


	25. Chapter 25

 

> _Conditions in the west grew so bad that the Iron Throne felt compelled to take a hand. Thrice King Aegon V sent forth his knights to restore order to the westerlands, but each time the conflicts flared up once again as soon as the king’s men had taken their leave. (TWOIAF)_

“Knights with dragon banners are keeping the peace in the westerlands, while the Laughing Lion slumbers in the lap of his son's wet nurse, searching for his mislaid manhood between her legs. Tell me, Father, how _proud_ do you think my grandsire would be of you?”

“Silence! You overreach yourself, boy.”

“I'm no _boy_. I'm more of a man than you'll _ever_ be.”

“I should never have allowed you to go to court. You think yourself so _grand_ , so high and mighty, just because the king's grandsons are now your close companions. Your blood is still not royal, and _I_ am still the Lord of Casterly Rock, despite all your presumptions and arrogance.”

“Why, Father, it was _you_ who sent me to court to be the king's cupbearer. It was _you_ who sent me away from Casterly Rock, as my punishment for daring to speak out against your weak-willed impotence. Do you regret it now?”

“One day, you, too, will be a father. Pray gods you never have to suffer your own son speaking to you in this _insolent_ manner. “

“When I am a father, I will never give my son cause to speak to me in _any_ manner that is less than respectful. I will never give my son cause to be ashamed of me.”

“Perhaps your son will give _you_ cause to be ashamed of _him_ , and then you will _finally_ understand how much you have made me suffer these many years.”

“You, ashamed of _me_ , Father?” The Laughing Lion had never succeeded in making his eldest son laugh before, but today, he succeeded beyond his wildest imagination. It was a laugh completely devoid of mirth, full of mockery and bitter derision.


	26. Chapter 26

> _The king had [Septon Murmison] lay hands on Lady Ceryse's belly every night, in the hopes that his brother might repent his folly if his lawful wife could be made fertile, but the lady soon grew weary of the nightly ritual and departed King's Landing for Oldtown, where she rejoined her father in the Hightower. (The Sons of the Dragon)_

That old, unmarried septon was one thing, but the king was a married man himself, a married man and a father of five, who surely  _must_ know how the making of babes took place. And yet he persisted, persisted night after night with this pointless, ghastly and humiliating ritual, standing there looking pious and reverent as he watched Septon Murmison placing his supposedly miraculous hands on Ceryse's belly.

Septon Murmison at least had the good grace to look apologetic and slightly embarrassed, even mortified at times. “I beg forgiveness for the coldness of my hands, my lady,” he always began, looking as if he'd rather be anywhere else in the world.

Aenys, on the other hand, always looked exultant, as if he was already witnessing a genuine miracle, jubilantly transported into another world, into a higher realm.

“Let us pray together, goodsister,” he always said, in his sweet voice, with his sweet smile. Sweet Aenys, altogether too sickly sweet and cloying for Ceryse's taste.

 _Shove your prayer down your throat!_ Ceryse wanted to scream.

 _Be patient! You must make the king your champion, your greatest supporter. He will bring your husband to heel eventually, and force Maegor to set aside his mockery of a second “marriage.”_  Her father's admonition rang loud and clear in Ceryse's ears.

_Easy for you to say, Father. You're not the one who has to endure this humiliation, this mockery of a ritual, night after night._

They could pray to the seven hells and back, but with her husband in exile, no child was ever going to grow in her womb. Where was the seed going to come from? Septon Murmison's magical palms? The king's oh-so-holy prayers?

No child had grown in her womb, even when Maegor was relentlessly plowing her night after night.

And of course,  _of course_  her husband, the king, the court, perhaps even her own father and her uncle the High Septon would assume that the lack of child was  _her_ fault. Barren. The barren Lady Ceryse. That barren woman.  _Men_  were never barren; they merely had the wrong wife.

There was no indication that Alys Harroway was with child. How many more women would Maegor need to wed and bed before it became clear that the barrenness was perhaps a problem closer to home than he would like to admit?

How many more nights could Ceryse endure this travesty?

Not one more night, she decided, as Aenys leaned closer to whisper his blessings. She removed Septon Murmison's hands from her belly with scant ceremony. “I need to go to the privy,” she announced.


	27. Chapter 27

 

>   _And thus it was there at Casterly Rock that Princess Rhaena gave birth to Aegon's daughters, twins they named Aerea and Rhaella. From the Starry Sept came another blistering proclamation. These children too were abominations, the High Septon proclaimed, the fruits of lust and incest, and accursed of the gods. (The Sons of the Dragon)_

“If only they are boys. Or one of them at least is a boy,” Lyman Lannister said, not for the first time. “A son would do much to bolster the strength of your claim to the throne,” he addressed Aegon. “And perhaps the High Septon would not have been -”

His wife the Lady Jocasta would have none of this. “The twins being boys would not have stopped that  _fool_  of a High Septon from calling them abominations accursed by the gods. How he could not see that  _this_  abomination is at least better than the abomination currently sitting on the Iron Throne, I will never understand. There are abominations, and then there are  _abominations_. Not all abominations are created equal. Surely even that old fool of a septon must know this.”

“Aerea and Rhaella are not abominations,” Rhaena objected. “They are our precious children.”

“Of course, my dear,” Lady Jocasta said, patting Rhaena's hand. “You are their mother, so it is only natural, only right and proper, that you would see it that way. Alas … the world sees it in a  _very_  different light.”

_Does the world include you, my lady? You who held them in your arms in the place of their grandmother when they were born, who kissed their foreheads and blessed them with your prayers, do you also see them as abominations accursed by the gods?_

Rhaena tried her best to conceal her bruised feelings, reminding herself that she owed a great deal to Lady Jocasta. It was Lady Jocasta who had been instrumental in stiffening her husband's resolve not to surrender Aegon and Rhaena to Maegor. Left to his own devices, Lord Lyman might have decided that the risk in sheltering them in Casterly Rock was much greater than any possible reward. It was Lady Jocasta who first saw that Rhaena was with child, Lady Jocasta who was with Rhaena when she gave birth, calling out for her mother.

_Mother! I need my mother. I cannot do this without my mother._

_Of course you can. And you must,_  Lady Jocasta had insisted, never letting go of Rhaena's hand.

Aegon looked dejected. “Bad enough that Mother and her Velaryon kin have all abandoned my cause and sworn an oath of loyalty to our wicked uncle. And now this ...”

“Queen Visenya came to Driftmark with her dragon,” Rhaena said. “We know how she would have threatened Mother. With the death of Viserys, Jaehaerys and Alysanne. And the death of all her kin, and the destruction of her home, the castle she was born and raised in.”

“So Mother chose Viserys, Jaehaerys and Alysanne over us?”

“We are still alive, are we not? I have faith in Mother. If she is bending the knee now, she is only doing it so we can rise again someday.”

“And you must also have faith in yourselves,” Lady Jocasta said. “You are the children of Queen Alyssa after all.”


End file.
